The Widget - A Firefly Castle crossover (with a hint of Chuck)
by CharacterDriven
Summary: When asked "What would happen if Castle and Reynolds met?" Nathan said, "Mal would shoot him in the face." I respectfully disagree, and speaking of respectful disagreement, both shows are great. NO h8, ok? Marlowe & ABC own Castle. Whedon and Fox own Firefly. But, as Joss pointed out, the story's still happening. I love him for that. Note: happy to get constructive criticism.


**The Widget  
**

_Thud_.

There it was again, very soft. Snuggled into his bed, Rick Castle smiled, his eyes closed. It was just his daughter Alexis, up late doing her homework. Or up early, getting ready for whatever thing she'd signed up to do in her endless array of Saturday morning activities... his right eye popped open and he focused on his alarm clock. His mind started running through the scenarios:

_One._ It was 3:30 a.m., too late for homework on a Friday night, and too early for fun on a Saturday morning unless you love fishing.

_Two._ Alexis did not love fishing.

_Three_. Alexis and Pi, her nightmare-of-a-fruitarian-space-cadet-boyfriend, had moved out two weeks before.

_Four_. Alexis had come home to raid the fridge more than once.

_Five_. His mother, a semi-retired, flame-haired Broadway diva, had flown down to Miami to visit some friends.

_Six_. He'd had his locks changed. None of his ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, ex-anythings had a key. Alexis had one, of course, but he'd made her swear she wouldn't give it to Pi, and she was always as good as her word.

_Seven_. Last but not least, his fiancée, Kate Beckett, was off at her dad's cabin. He'd meant to go with her, but got hit with a story idea so good he really needed to just write. This happened sometimes, and Kate was pretty understanding about it.

She'd said, "Well, it's probably good for us to miss each other once in a while." She'd invited her best friend Lanie instead, and they were off having some sort of girl-spa-weekend that probably involved doing Pilates exercises to Coltrane and wearing cucumber slices over their eyelids.

Thus, Castle was home alone. He had written until 12:47 am, then played Angel's Shiny Hat for a half-hour - okay, an hour. Gone to bed after setting the house alarm system. Sent Beckett a series of absolutely filthy and suggestive texts, which she'd returned in kind, starting with _"I couldn't sleep." _He checked her last text again and smiled, thinking of what she'd promised - at some length – to do to/for him when she got home... The loft had grown quiet again. His mind wandered a little, his startled heartbeat calmed, and he was almost back to sleep... _"Wait. That's not right."_

He _knew_ he'd set the alarm. Rick opened both eyes this time, and peered for confirmation at the wall-mounted backup keypad for the alarm system. Its usual bright green LED had blacked out. Even the red 'Alarm Off' light was disabled. He sat up with a jolt.

Another _thud_. Definitely from upstairs.

Shit. Burglar.

_DOUBLE shit_. 3xK? He steeled himself. The so-called Triple Killer - 3xK - had framed him for murder then faked his own death to get away with it. That 3xK bastard wasn't going to catch him napping again. Especially not napping without an alibi witness around.

There was a secret compartment built into Castle's padded leather headboard (he knew a guy who did stuff like that). With a gentle nudge, a panel silently opened on a spring, and he pulled out a loaded handgun. He kept the safety on in case someone (Alexis? Her sorry-ass fruitarian boyfriend, Pi?) had just come home looking to loot the fridge. He smiled grimly, thinking, "Pi, if you came over to raid the fruit bowl, I'm gonna shoot your eye out."

He sort of hoped it was Pi, just for the opportunity to scare the daylights out of him.

Castle donned a little LED headlamp kept bedside for reading and emergencies, then slipped out of bed. Adrenaline surged through him, cold sweat mixed with rage. This did not feel like a game of laser tag. Silent and deadly as a ninja's fart, he padded out of his room, his heart thundering so loudly he barely heard – and yet did hear – soft footfalls somewhere in the shadows, near the open kitchen. He looked up. Someone had come in through a trapezoidal segment of the skylight. By the wedge of city light spilling in, he could see the intruder had swung over on a cable from the skylight's frame to the open landing, halfway up the stairs.

There was a series of metallic clicks, someone unbuckling from a climbing harness. Then a faint bluish light, and Castle's heart sank. From the light's angle to the stair rail, the intruder was taller than either 3xK or Pi, and his square jaw was barely lit from below by a touch-screen; perhaps he was confirming with an accomplice, or checking the loft's floor plan from a reference source. The soft light went out, and a silhouette moved down the stairs with infinite slowness and patience. Castle muffled the sound of switching the gun safety off, skulked quickly into the living room, and took whatever cover he could behind the load-bearing wall segment. But the angle was awkward and offered little shelter. There was no way to get the jump if the burglar was armed for a fight. Castle thought ruefully, _"What kind of idiot lets his decorator talk him into a glass coffee table?"_

Trying to quiet his breathing, he thought, _"Ok. Now or never."_ He switched his headlamp on and scanned in the direction of the footsteps. With a yelped, "Whoa!" the intruder froze at the bottom of the stairs when Rick's light spilled over his face and broad shoulders. The stranger's left hand partially shielded his blue eyes from the headlamp. The oversized, oddly-shaped pistol in his right hand was aimed directly at Rick's forehead.

Rick's voice sounded calmer than he felt. "Drop the gun or I'll shoot." Neither moved. Rick added, "I mean it."

When he replied, the burglar's voice was deep and oddly familiar, yet somehow wrong. Was it the slightly Texas-ish accent or... what? It almost sounded like Rick's dad. As inordinately calm as Rick, the stranger drawled, "That lamp's useful."

"The better to see you with."

"It's showing me exactly where to aim at your brainpan. You comprehend?"

Rick held his stance. "You'd rather be a burglar than a murderer."

I was goin' more for repo man today."

"Repo man?" Rick snorted. "Only an asshole gets killed over..." his head tilted, puzzled. "What did you come for?" He didn't lease anything, and he certainly wasn't behind on any payments.

"I'll know it when I see it." The intruder's eyes were starting to water, his pupils tiny, his irises a pure sky blue. "If I don't go blind first. Hell of a burn on my eyeballs."

As frequently happened, Rick's curiosity overcame his common sense. "How about if we just both lower our weapons and nobody gets hurt?"

The burglar said mildly, "I'm good with that." He holstered his gun cautiously, watching Rick. "Sorry about this. You weren't supposed to be home."

Rick switched a side-table lamp on, secured his pistol safety, and set the gun down on the table. He left the headlamp on the side-table as well, and unconsciously smoothed his brown hair into its customary best behavior. The burglar took off a glove and rubbed at his watery eyes with a large, workmanlike hand. He looked across at Rick and rubbed his eyes again. They found themselves staring at one another, wide-eyed, for a long, extremely uncomfortable moment.

The intruder was athletic and hardscrabble, with somewhat shaggy brown hair and a ruggedly handsome face. He wore earth tones: a brick-red shirt and some out-of-fashion suspenders securing tight, button-fly khaki pants. His gloves and tall boots were battered brown leather. A canvas rucksack clung across his broad shoulders, and a climbing harness spanned his narrow hips, tucked under the gun belt and holster. Presumably he wanted to be able to shoot on the fly. Somehow he seemed unlikely to miss.

The stranger scowled at Rick, perhaps seeing one version of what he could have become, given no war, millions in cash, fifteen years, the occasional facial, regular meals, and a penchant for silk pajamas. "Don't that beat all," he murmured.

As for Rick, he was pretty sure he was having one hell of a lucid dream, and hoped it wouldn't turn into a nightmare. He remembered the double 3xK had used to frame him. He snapped, "Ok, it's too soon for another birthday prank. Did my mother send you? Or was it Beckett? Very funny."

"Maybe the trick's on me." The stranger advanced from the shadows, into the strong pool of lamplight. The two men found themselves at a loss for words, taking each other in at close range. Being in boots, the stranger was about an inch taller than Rick in his bare feet, and maybe twenty pounds lighter, ten or fifteen years younger. There was another difference. This man had the saddest eyes he'd ever seen. Sadder than Kate's when he met her. Fathomless, bottomless, endless loss.

But aside from those differences, their physical resemblance went beyond disturbing to a sinking feeling of downright weird with a sharp left at eerie. The scar over the left eye. The bent-but-straight nose. It was like looking in a mirror, only the wrong way 'round. Worse, in his nervousness, Rick's mouth went suddenly dry, and his mirror image swallowed, clearly on the same track, at the same time. Under his tanned and somewhat grimy complexion, the burglar had a pallor that not even a good actor can fake. He stared at Rick as if he'd seen a ghost. "I have a guess as to why they picked me for this job."

Robbed of coherent speech, Rick gestured to the kitchen. "Drink." He didn't wait for a response, just turned his back to the intruder without fear. "Bourbon ok?"

The stranger hesitated, then followed him, not too closely. "Not familiar with it."

"It might uh, cheer you up a little." Feeling a little wobbly, Rick sat at one of the tall kitchen chairs. The stranger waved away Rick's offer of a seat. Rick set up a couple of bourbon shots. The good stuff. "You might find it a little smokey." He poured his guest a glass of water on the side, just in case. The repo man put his glove back on and accepted the shot Rick poured for him.

Rick held up his glass in a toast. "To steady work and better days."

His lips twitching in a near-smile, the repo man nodded and sniffed the caramel-noted, smokey whiskey, the glass dwarfed in his hand. His nostrils flared and eyes widened, obviously pleased. "Steady work. Better days." Rick could hear it now: the man's voice bothered him because it was too much like his own.

The stranger took an exploratory sip, looked more than politely impressed, then finished it and set the glass down, glancing at the bottle wistfully, but saying nothing. He picked up the water glass and leaned back against the kitchen counter. Holding the water up to the light, the repo man squinted at it through the bottom, apparently out of habit. Rick realized with a start that he was checking for, what, dirt? Either this burglar was a method actor, or wherever he came from, life was hard.

His water gone, the stranger set his glass in the sink without even turning to see where it belonged. It chilled Rick again to see how he almost seemed to belong there, in perfect reach of the knife block and hand towel and soap dispenser he'd placed just-so, for his own comfort.

Rick found his hand shaking, just a little, as he poured two more shots for them. "How... how did you get here?"

"I'm not even sure where 'here' is. Some tech thing. My pilot..." The stranger accepted his second shot but didn't drink yet. His gaze swept around and across the living room, then settled in on one of Rick's curio cases, and his demeanor sharpened, became purposeful. "It's no matter how. Gettin' to business, I'd feel less of a thief if you'd be willing to part with the Tachyon widget."

"What widget where?" Realization dawned, and then a deep excitement welled up in him. The Tachyon Generator? Of course he knew where it was. Simon Doyle, the purported time traveler, had left it behind at the 12th Precinct Station on his quest to save the future. Either that or he was barking loony. All this trouble for a useless piece of electronic junk? But would a barking loon have the resources to hire a cat burglar who...

"Don't try to play me. You know it ain't yours." The would-be burglar strode over to a glass curio case, which contained some of Castle's most prized _(toys)_ collectables. "It's not here." He moved to another, peering through the glass shelving. "That's it." He finished his shot and set the empty glass atop the case.

Rick practically squeaked. "The time travel gadget?"

"The intel said it would likely be in a display case of toys..." The burglar stopped, thunderstruck. "Huh." He hunkered down to examine the models in the case, a fleet of replica space ships _(Not to Relative Scale)_. He stared hard at one in particular, something like a bird or a bug. The stranger's voice cracked and his gaze at Rick was almost accusing. "That just - That ain't right."

Rick's voice was high, betraying his fanboy enthusiasm. He hurried to look over the other man's shoulder. "You mean the model? I know, isn't this..." He stopped. Was it cool or just scary?

The repo man glared at Rick, then down at the model. His gloved finger stroked the glass case with something like longing. "Series Three. I've always wanted one."

Scary, then. Rick backed off and murmured, "You and me both, brother." He realized that was a weird thing to say the second it left his mouth. But having distracted his guest, Rick found himself glad indeed that the repo man hadn't looked too closely through the shadows.

"I don't got a brother." The two exchanged another perturbed glance. The repo man stood abruptly and tapped at his holstered gun. "But I do have this job, and you got this widget you don't need, and," he swallowed again, "I'm ponderin' whether shooting you is absolutely in my own best interest."

"It certainly wouldn't be in mine." Rick raised his hands and said, "I'll just get my keys. No need to shoot... anything." He moved rather sidelong into his bedroom to grab the keys off his dresser. (Castle loved keys and kept the small, nonessential ones on a pewter fob shaped like a stegosaurus: keys to cabinets, diaries, his extra-special liquor cabinet, little treasure boxes, his porn stash, padlocks, and a few mystery keys that had either never gone with anything, or that he'd forgotten what they opened but because they looked cool). Catching his reflection, he stared at himself in the mirror, feeling his face. Definitely the right-way-round Rick: older, craggier, a little softer... but so much _happier_ than the mysterious stranger, even with all the turmoil he and Kate had suffered together. He felt guilty somehow. Spoiled. He returned to find the burglar looking around the apartment. He seemed to have calmed himself down a bit.

The burglar said, "Nice place." He picked up a photo of Rick, Martha, and Alexis together, and spoke like a doctor giving a chronic prognosis: "You've got redheads." He gave a wry smile.

Rick nodded. "Yeah." He wondered what else had made its way into the rucksack while he was off getting the key (it took him a good six months to realize that his cheap but treasured black plastic knockoff of Han Solo In Carbonite was long gone). The stranger picked up another photo, of Castle and Beckett, her in the black dress, at his birthday party.

He couldn't hide the pride and wonder in his voice. "That's my fiancée."

"I see you got lucky." The man was sincerely impressed.

Rick shrugged modestly, "It was a lot of work."

"Worth it?"

Castle grinned, echoing Beckett's words. "You have no idea."

The stranger hid sadness in his smile. "You're right. I don't."

Rick fidgeted awkwardly with his stupid little key fob. "Look. I'm not one to give advice, but... if you love someone, don't hide it away.'"

The stranger's eyes lost their light a moment, and he said flatly, "Spoken by someone who can buy himself whatever life he wants." He set Kate's picture down, a little harder than strictly necessary.

Rick shrugged. "Money doesn't fix everything." He waved the keys at the repo man, unlocked the case, and pulled out the Tachyon Generator. He held onto it a moment, hefting its substantial weight in his hand. Beckett's logical voice in his head said, "It's a _toy_, Castle." Doyle's ravings about time-travel had been endearingly fanciful, despite his circumstantial association with a brutal murderer. Could this silly little machine, which somewhat resembled a Sharper Image meat thermometer, actually work? Was it really a Tachyon Generator, or a joke, or the sad product of geeky insanity? Well, someone had (possibly) (literally?) bent reality, or at least spent good money, to retrieve it. Such possibilities. SO cool. He looked for the power switch.

The stranger stepped back three anxious paces, but kept his voice a little too casual."I really don't recommend you mess with that." Rick noticed a shift in mood as the stranger's hand drifted back toward his gun.

"Why not?"

The burglar glanced up, thinking no doubt of who or whatever awaited him through the open skylight. The night was unusually dark for New York City, and Rick could see stars. "There's another one. But they can't fire up too close by. Cross the streams..." He shrugged. "Boom."

Rick smiled wistfully, "I know. Marshmallow cream everywhere. But I wonder where it would take me. Or when."

"Wanna risk never comin' back?"

Rick looked around his place: he could easily and happily part with every damn thing here if it meant a new horizon, an epic adventure... Just one thing he couldn't, and wouldn't, leave: love. He wasn't going to chance it, not even for an elaborate practical joke, if that's what it turned out to be. "My family's here."

"Good answer." Sad again, the stranger paused and reset himself to Business Mode. "Do I need to tie you up, or are we ok here?"

"We're good." Rick handed the widget over, and the stranger tucked it carefully into a padded, shiny metal box from his shoulder pack. The stranger cast a sidelong glance at Rick's bottle of bourbon, then, without even asking, reached as if to take it. "You won't miss this much?" It was only half a question.

Rick nodded, then added, "Wait. That's half empty." He reached into the liquor cabinet and pulled out a full, sealed bottle of vodka. "Be my guest," Rick said drily. "This is kind of rare. You can get a good price for it... or you could use it to clean your windshield. Disinfect injuries. Throw a party. So many uses."

"This is something of a first." The stranger didn't ask why, but he did seem truly grateful.

Castle winked. "No. It's a fifth."

The stranger didn't quite seem to understand the joke _("Maybe he's Canadian," _thought Rick_. "They use the metric system, right?")_ but gave him a tentative, indulgent smile anyway. "Okay."

Rick wrapped the two bottles in clean dish towels to pad them. The stranger tucked his gift into his rucksack alongside the tachyon generator (and, presumably, Commander Solo On Ice). The stranger started for the stairs. "It's uh, been innerestin'." Neither of them offered to shake hands.

Rick had opened a fresh bottle of bourbon and poured himself another finger. He sipped it, finally feeling the burn, and waved the bottle, a little sloppily. "You don't have to climb out. There's an elevator at the end of the main hall. It'll take you to the roof."

The stranger smirked from the stairs, his blue eyes twinkling. "That takes all the fun right out of it." He made the landing and hooked into his climbing tackle.

Rick looked up at him. "Just one question. Did Simon Doyle send you? Little guy, with a beard?"

"Nope. He was a tall man. Dark hair. Pretty. Said his name was Carmichael."

Rick's next sip was halfway there, and went down the wrong way. "Ok, that's it," he rasped. "This just got too weird."

The repo man looked a tad concerned but didn't pursue Rick's train of thought. He tapped a radio nestled at his ear. "Yeah. Got it. No! No trouble. For once." He perched his perfect butt on the landing rail, tested the line, and swung out over the living room. He careened around a bit (whether out of control or for entertainment effect it was hard to discern), letting fly a whoop and something that sounded like "Tuìchū dì yīshēng zài wǒ shēnbiān, nǐ lā shǐ yòu nǎo bènzhòng de fèifèi!" quit swinging me around, you poo-brained hulking babboon!

He didn't manage to break anything, although his feet nearly hit Rick once when he spun on the backswing. The human pendulum winding down, he was hauled up and out by unseen means.

Rick called up, his voice still a little thick, "Keep flying."

The stranger's head ducked back down through the skylight. "That's the plan." They shared a lopsided grin. Then he was gone.

The skylight panel snapped shut. Rick watched as, by some unseen means, the interior latch turned back into its place with a faint scraping sound. A few moments later, through the translucent glass, there was a faint rumble, and a flare of yellow light.

He felt keyed up. "No more sleep tonight," he grumbled. He grabbed his robe and slippers against the chill, heading into his office to write. He did fall asleep at his desk at around 7 am.

Kate came back from her retreat at noon and noticed Rick asleep with his face on his keyboard. She decided not to awaken him. Happy to be at the loft - no, happy to be home! - with a little time to herself, she moved about quietly, collecting dishes, loading and running the dishwasher (he'd never gotten around to it the night before) and unpacking. She noticed the gun and headlamp on the table, and since it was un-fired, she figured he'd been trying to figure out gun-centered plot point, and was very glad he hadn't shot himself in the process. She put the pistol and headlamp away, and made the bed, planning to unmake it again with him in another twenty minutes. She finally returned to his office, leaned over, and awoke him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Babe."

He jumped awake, squeaking, "What just happened?"

Kate grinned. "I think you fell asleep writing again."

He rubbed his eyes. "I feel like fuzzy pounding hell." He'd had one of those dreams that slips away and comes back in half-remembered flashes. The slightly sleep-puffy skin on his cheekbone had been embossed by his keyboard:

tyui  
ghjk  
bnm

"It was a fun story, but right now I can't remember a word..." His screen had gone to sleep too, and he wiggled his trackball, then groaned, scrolling through. "Oh, hell, it's gone." Whatever story he had meant to type had been obliterated and replaced with 143 pages of the letter 'm'. "_mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm_..." For all he could remember, the story might have been really good. But he'd shorted out the keyboard, probably by drooling on it in his sleep. The words were gone.

Kate frowned sympathetically. "Oh, I'm so sorry. That's awful." She tilted her head seductively. "On the other hand, 'Mmmmmmmm' is one of my favorite words, especially when you make me say it in the shower."

"'O' is good, too?"

"'O' is one of the best letters of the alphabet." She drew it out, softly, in his ear. "Ohhhhhh."

It was the best shower ever.

***

Rick remembered the dream more fully three days later, and somehow couldn't dismiss it as such. Laughing at his own foolishness, he gave in to the niggling urge to check on it. He found the case unlocked, and the Tachyon Generator apparently back where he'd left it, unchanged at first glance. But examining the widget, which the NYPD tech department had dismissed as a functional-appearing but useless piece of electronic junk, he found that it no longer switched on. Also, although it had been in near-perfect condition when he originally locked it in the case, it was now damaged. From the cracks and dings, he realized someone had dropped it from a great height and taped it neatly back together. There was a black, greasy fingerprint on the tape.

He smiled. There was no point taking it down to the station. Rick knew beyond a doubt that NYPD would have no match for that print, unless it turned out to be his own... and what would that prove? Not even Beckett would believe him. Okay, especially not Beckett. He set the widget back on its little acrylic pedestal, locked the cabinet up, and shivered lightly.

Grinning from ear to ear, he murmured, "Can't stop the signal."


End file.
